A Victim or Just a Tragedy
by minidraken
Summary: This story is a different take on Tom Riddle's childhood, set in Oliver's England, 1836. It explores the similarities of their situations, as well as their contrasting personas. When faced with Oliver's struggles, how will Tom react? And how would the story be different if it contained a good amount of magic?


**A Victim or Just a Tragedy**

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own either of the published masterpieces _Harry Potter_ or _Oliver Twist_. Neither do I write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter One

* * *

 _I. Treats of the Place where Tom Riddle was Born, and of the Circumstances attending his Birth._

* * *

The room smelled of drooling rust and sour must, and it reeked of something resembling burnt rubber, Tom thought to himself disdainfully. How he had never noticed it before he could scarcely fathom, although he would bet on his life it had everything to do with how he had ended up in this dreadful place to start with. The walls were mouldy and wet of intrusive rainwater dripping onto the murky, grimy floorboards. Little fruit flies were zooming about a pile of dirty rags in the corner of the narrow kitchen – little dots which were becoming increasingly unbearable as he remembered the posh chambers of wealth and cleanliness in which he had grown up. They had been nothing at all like the misery in which he was now seated, at a rickety wooden table, which was so uneven it was a mystery how the plates and cups upon it did not simply slide off its surface.

He could feel hopelessness creep up on him, into his very clothes – as gloomy and full of holes as they were – as he heard a dreaded screech of agony coming from the bedroom. His supposed wifewas in labour; had been for hours, days if one counted how long she had been bedridden. He didn't dare going to check up on her in fear of the gruesome sight he might behold. Not only because of the act of child birth itself but even more so from fear of beholding the woman he had once sworn to love for all eternity.

As though he had been in a daze, although he could dreadfully recall every single moment of it, he had gone through the motions like a blind man, knowing little more than that Merope Gaunt was truly his one and only, his one true love, and nothing else had mattered.

How he loathed those memories now, for at this moment he could see clearly, as if a wicked spell had been broken, which, he thought feeling faint, was not entirely out of the question. During his elopement with Merope, he had seen proof, time and time again, of how magic and spells might not belong to fairy tales exclusively. No, he knew for certain that his wife could be nothing but a witch, which in truth sounded like codswallop, but it wasn't. She carried around a small stick, which could be nothing but a wand, and it could make things happen. It could make small pots fly about; it could make something broken become whole again; and it could hurt him if he ever did something she disliked.

Moreover, on the stove stood a worn, pewter cauldron, which omitted a steady scent of the cleanest sheets and the sweetest lemon cake Tom had ever smelled in his entire life. With the miserable dankness around him, he would gladly down the entire pot of it, but he knew for certain that nothing good would come of it. It had all started with that mysterious, magical concoction, and he would sooner die than down even one more drop of it. He had first tasted it on that unbearably hot day, the drink smelling deceivingly refreshing after hours upon hours of travelling on horseback, and he had sealed his own fate then. From that day on, he had had a drink of it once a day, for years.

But recently, his wife had grown and grown in size; swelling with child. And finally, she had become bedridden and he had not had another drink of the diabolical concoction since. That was why he could tell for certain what had been the origin of this endless nightmare, wherein the woman in the other room was his wife, and wherein he was... a father, he concluded with intense feelings of grief and fear as he heard one last ear-splitting howl, immediately followed by the first, high-pitched screech of his newborn.

Tom felt a pinch in his heart region as he listened to the child's wailing; his child's wailing. His bloodshot eyes welled up with uncontrollable tears that had him shiver as if an ice cold wind had stolen inside the room, leaving him light-headed with the absurd need to throw up. He had become a father. It seemed sudden, although it wasn't, not truly, for the poor creature had lingered in the swelling body of his wife, he knew. He had watched it happen, with mindless, fabricated anticipation. But all of a sudden it had all become painstakingly real.

The gaunt gentleman shot onto his feet with such ferocity his weakened body could hardly hold up, and it gave in for a moment, making Tom's abused head spin. Before he could tumble over and lose all control of his anxious stomach, he stomped on towards the front door, one thought in mind. Perhaps if they knew, if they had a plausible explanation they would see reason and let him back. He could go home, he could tell his dear father and mother of all the dreadful trials he'd been put through, and they would forgive him. If he left now while Merope was still weak, knocked out by the sounds of it, she wouldn't be able to stop him. He could go home and it would all be over.

Those thoughts hauling him out of the most pressing misery, he straightened and put a shaking hand to the limp door handle. But how to make sure to get to Little Hangleton in time, he pondered with a heavy feeling to his sickened stomach. He had no money or belongings any more, and he had his own wife to thank for it. If he wanted the slightest chance of successfully escaping this mess he would have to make sure to reach his destination as soon as possible, for this was a pressing matter indeed.

He was a victim of abduction, of darkest crime, and no doubt there was no other end left for Merope Gaunt (he refused to acknowledge the usage of his own, proud family name for that hateful woman) but a quick drop and a sudden stop. He'd see to it, Tom promised himself as he reached out towards the hooks on the wall next to the door, threw on his threadbare coat and stole a glance at the unconscious woman in the bedroom. He'd see her swing from the neck before he laid these matters to rest. She'd stolen his life with her cunning methods; it was only proper he returned the favour. Being proper was important, he reckoned. He was a gentleman after all. Or, at least he was supposed to be one.

Tom was not prepared, not at all, for the sudden onslaught of feelings once he laid eyes on his newborn for the first time. The little face was all flushed, wrinkly and sodden. It looked like a prune, a really squishy one, and yet, it was the most beautiful thing Tom had seen for a very long time.

He stole closer, careful not to step on any of the squeaky floorboards, and was suddenly faced with a very strange thought. Why not take the child with him? It was a boy he noted, now that he was close enough to see. The poor creature was still crying, flailing his arms, squishing his eyes together for dear life. What would happen to him now if Tom just left without him? An orphanage, perhaps – or worse; a dreary childhood growing up with a psychopathic lunatic of a mother. That was what was going to happen for sure if the police never managed to imprison her.

Resolute, with an odd sense of pride, feeling he was doing the right thing, Tom carefully picked the small child up and wrapped him into a threadbare blanket. The cloth barely helped muffling the sound of his wailing, but it seemed to calm him some as he sunk into the soft, although very dirty material.

Tom's lips twitched into a crazed smile, and he was just about to turn around and step out the door when he saw it, it, hanging so casually around the unconscious woman's neck. The ticket out of his misery. The thing that would buy him, not only the insurance of a safe travel, but also a carriage of his own to take him in haste from this dreadful little town and back to where he had always belonged. And surely, it would be better for the child to travel by carriage than by foot or horse?

Holding his breath, barely noticing his son had finally settled against his chest and stopped complaining, Tom sneaked across the room and reached towards his price. Unclasping it was tricky, but he got it done, and soon the dusted gold and the handsome ornament in emerald sparkled up at him from his cupped hand. He hastened to shove it into his left coat pocket as he hurried across the room, not paying any attention to where he was placing his feet this time around.

A sickening creak startled him out of his muddled thoughts and it felt as though his hammering heart had suddenly stopped inside his chest. He had reached the threshold, and as he slowly turned back around he could already picture what he would see behind his back.

Reality was worse than fantasy. He stood faced with the madness of his now very awake wife as she realised one fact after the other; the fact that he was in his right mind, that he had taken the child and the medallion, as well as the fact that he was just about to run away with all of it and leave her behind.

Her hollow-cheeked face twisted in a madness Tom had never seen before, an expression so sickening that blind fear assaulted his mind, and he thought for a moment he would never find the courage to move again, even less run as he had intended to.

With small, twitchy movements that screamed of how much pain she was still in, with blood and gore hanging out from between her skinny legs, Merope arose. As if her movement had been the trigger, Tom shot into action and hauled himself out of the house and onto the dark streets of Mudfog. Behind him he heard the tell-tale sound of running; the promise of a monster of madness closing in on him; the threat of fire licking at his heels. He gritted his teeth and ran faster still. It was no use imagining it, for he knew for sure he had the devil at his heels and that the chase had only just begun.

The scenery switched around him in a haze, his franticly searching eyes only catching snippets of old brick buildings, cobbled streets filled with wet dirt, stray dogs, shady figures turning their faces away, hiding behind rugged hats and heavy coats, and the smoky fog covering it all.

Tom bit his tongue painfully as his worn boots slipped and slid in the dark mud muddling the cobblestones beneath him, and as his legs flew apart in a wild movement, he almost lost his grip on the wrapped infant in his aching arms. He was saved by throwing his shoulder into the brick wall next to him, halting his steps momentarily, but also steadying him and giving him some room to breathe.

He took the momentary release to flick away one end of the blanket, uncovering his son's face and noticing with a fond smile that a couple of dark, intelligent eyes were studying him with wonder. It was a look of such pure innocence Tom couldn't seem to remember how to breathe at all.

Although, in one very violent jolt of action, he suddenly recalled the motion, as he was caught with a painful thrust in his back, flinging him further into the wall as he drew in what seemed to be the sharpest and most unsatisfying breath of his entire life.

He shivered violently as a horrible pain spread across his crouched back. Turning his head around, he saw with dread how close Merope had come, despite her slow gait. Her eyes were full of fire, burning bright and numbing all pains and aches; she had truly become a monster. In one raised hand she held her dreaded wooden stick, and Tom realised at once that he had been hit by one of her terrible spells.

With renewed vigour, chased by two evils tearing at his back now, he came alive and threw himself back into the chase – chase for a freedom that suddenly seemed very far away.

As he ran, he felt rather than heard how his wife slipped away, fell back and suddenly was too far away to spot at all. Still, he kept running almost until his legs gave out, until his lungs collapsed and the pain in the middle of his back became unbearable.

The world swam in front of his eyes as he finally came to rest behind some odd place – a tall building with many windows, layered in dark bricks and black dust. He found an opening and slipped inside, falling into some dark corridor where there seemed to be no life, no sound, no movement – nothing but his own intrusion.

He fell against a cold wall and slid down, beyond tired. His mouth was dry and sore, his chest was heaving and his back hurt worse and worse by each movement. In his ears, an eerie ringing sounded like an echo from one side of his existence to the other. In his lap, the bundle stirred.

A sudden scream sounded, seemingly far, far away, but the hands disturbing his rest rebutted the suggestion of distance. The world turned over, and in the midst of all the pain, Tom felt a warm weight leave his arms. This worried him, stirred him, and as he was dropped down onto some soft surface his mind cleared momentarily.

"The child," he rasped out, sensing rather than seeing another's presence at his side.

"There there," some stern-sounding woman said, taking his slack hand in hers and slapping it repeatedly. "We'll take care of the child, don't you worry yourself."

"Please," Tom managed faintly, "let me see the child, and die."

"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet," insisted the stern voice, and somewhere behind her, an old woman's voice agreed: "Lor bless his heart, no!"

"The child ... please," Tom whispered one last time and felt, with a contented smile, how the light weight was put back upon his chest. "Good ... You must promise me ... to name him Tom Riddle – perhaps then ... he can get a proper home," he wheezed out and slowly pecked his son's soft, warm head. After that he closed his eyes, drifted off into the mist and died.

The two old ladies stood watching the scene with quite some pity, both thinking it a shame such a fine young man would die, and right upon becoming a parent to boot.

Once the man's demise was certain to both of the ladies, Mrs. Cole bent over the bed and retrieved the little boy from his father's cold arms. "Queer child," she muttered, "lying in the lap of death without as much as a stir or a whimper. Little Tom Riddle, was it?"

"Yes that's what I heard," Old Sally croaked from the corner of the room.

"All right," Mrs. Cole muttered, holding the child up to inspect his face. "Well well," she cooed contentedly, "oughtn't to be very hard finding a place for you I'd think. Big, dark eyes, fair skin and soft black hair – and not a sound so far. No trouble at all. Seems to be taking after his father in looks this one."

"I bet his mother must have been just about as pretty to snare such a man in these parts," Old Sally implored, and Mrs. Cole nodded her agreement.

"Quite right, now please cover him up before the policemen arrive, would you, and I'll get this one to bed."

With those words, Mrs. Cole was out the door, and out of sight. Old Sally waited a moment, listening to the fading sound of her matron's heels hitting the wooden floor, before lunging into movement. With deft hands, she searched Tom Riddle's corpse for valuables. She screwed the simple wedding ring off his finger and muttered to herself, figuring that this would be all for her to pawn. That mutter turned into a muffled, delighted squeal when her nimble hands found their way into his left coat pocket.

* * *

 _II. Treats of Tom Riddle's Growth, Education and Board._

* * *

"Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mrs. Cole, ma'am?" Mrs. Mann called out with a suddenness that made Tom snap his head up from his work, and look up at the grimy kitchen window, where his matron's puffy and freckled face stuck out, sporting a sickeningly joyful expression. Next, he whacked his head sideways and caught sight of a stern-looking woman standing outside the snow-covered wicket gate, rattling it impatiently.

"Martha, take Tom and them two brats up stairs, and wash 'em directly," Mrs. Mann hissed behind her back before looking out through the window with another huge grin. "My heart alive! Mrs. Cole, how glad I am to see you, surely!"

The murky front door creaked open, and young Martha bustled outside with three-year-old Sam on her hip, scooting five-year-old Dick towards the doorway and gesturing for Tom to put his work aside and follow. Doing as told, Tom carefully unwound his painfully stale clutch on the dull knife, dropping one half-peeled potato back into the wooden pail, before he arose from the cold hard ground and slipped inside. Blowing on his hands to make them less stiff, Tom carefully listened in on his matron's conversation and followed Martha and the kids upstairs as slowly as he dared.

Lingering on the first step of the rickety staircase, he watched Mrs. Mann bustle outside, falling over herself to help Mrs. Cole with the ill-willed gate. "Lor, only think," she twittered breathlessly, "only think of that! That I should have forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear children!" Tom quietly snorted to himself, fully aware that the gate was merely old and ill-fitting, and not in any way manipulated to protect Mrs. Mann's dear children. "Walk in, ma'am; walk in, pray, Mrs. Cole, do, ma'am."

Peering out through the tiny and very dirty hallway window, Tom saw Mrs. Mann's blurry shape curtsey deeply as Mrs. Cole barged through the gate with a great kick. "Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann," she inquired in a prim tone, sounding fairly insulted, "to keep the respectful matron of a praiseworthy establishment a waiting at your garden-gate, when she comes all the way here upon parochial business connected with the parochial orphans? Are you aware, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a parochial delegate, and a stipendiary?"

Tom dearly wished he could see his caretaker's face in that moment, having no doubt it was twisted into stunned disbelief and shame at the reprimand. Sniggering quietly behind his grime-coated right hand, Tom thought to himself that Mrs. Cole seemed like a fairly decent person; anyone who showed disdain to his negligent matron was all right in his book.

"Tom!" hissed Martha from upstairs, staring down at him with reproach in her cold blue eyes. "You naughty boy – come 'ere an' wash up before I come an' get you."

Sending her a dark glare, Tom ascended the stairs and rushed to his tiny nook, which he shared with Sam and Dick. Martha stood by Sam's cot, scrubbing at his small back with a rough cloth, making his skin shine bright pink. It looked in no way pleasant, and for once, Tom didn't detest the little boy for weeping and wailing.

Sharing a basin with Dick, Tom did short work of his washing, and quickly brushed the worst grime off his threadbare clothing before hurrying down the stairs again, ignoring Martha's irritated hisses for him to stop.

"Now, don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say," Tom heard Mrs. Mann utter in a sickeningly sweet voice once he reached the bottom of the staircase. "You've had a long walk, you know, or I wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink, Mrs. Cole?"

"Not a drop. Not a drop," said Mrs. Cole in a dignified yet placid voice, as if it was a great virtue to refuse, although she'd rather she could indulge.

"I think you will," insisted Mrs. Mann, hearing her tone. "Just a leetle drop, with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar."

Mrs. Cole coughed. Tom rolled his eyes, having no patience for this kind of overly-friendly small talk. Mrs. Cole was obviously here on some business, and he dearly wanted to know what that was.

"Now, just a leetle drop," said Mrs. Mann persuasively, and Mrs. Cole seemed to hesitate.

"What is it?" she inquired.

"Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house to put into the blessed infants' Daffy, when they ain't well, Mrs. Cole," replied Mrs. Mann, bustling excitedly into the kitchen as she rattled on, forcing Tom to duck away from the doorway not to be seen. Carefully, he instead snuck closer to the parlour, where Mrs. Cole was seated in the nicest armchair in front of the crackling fireplace. "It's gin," Mrs. Mann called from the kitchen with a nauseating little titter. "I'll not deceive you, Mrs. C. It's gin."

"Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?" inquired Mrs. Cole sternly, apparently finding some fault with such treatment.

"Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is," replied his matron, and Tom sneered darkly at remembrance of those times when he had been sick, and therefore had been assaulted by that wicked laxative medicine. Thankfully, he had been an uncommonly healthy child; Dick had had it far worse. "I couldn't see 'em suffer before my very eyes, you know, ma'am."

"No;" said Mrs. Cole approvingly; "no, you could not. You are a humane woman, Mrs. Mann." Eyes intently following each and every little movement of the glass, Mrs. Cole's entire attitude shifted, and she practically purred with delight once Mrs. Mann put the gin down on the rickety coffee table in front of the chair. Tom couldn't help but feel deeply disappointed; to be so easily bought by a mere glass of gin. "I shall take an early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann." Mrs. Cole drew the glass towards her, making a scraping sound against the rough wooden surface. "You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann." She stirred the gin-and-water with a greedy expression, and all of a sudden, Tom hated her with a furious intensity. "I – I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann," she stated, holding the glass up in a toast before downing half of it in one big gulp.

"And now about business," she said after smacking her lips disgustingly, putting the glass down onto the table and digging out a leathern pocket-book out of her black coat, licking some residue liquor off the sides of her mouth. "The child that was half-baptized, Tom Riddle, is nine years old today."

"Bless him!" interposed Mrs. Mann, wiping away at her eyes, as if weeping for his poor self. Tom perked up, hearing his name, wondering what business Mrs. Cole could have with him.

"And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernatural exertions on the part of this parish," said Mrs. Cole, "we have never been able to discover who is his mother, or what was his father's settlement, name, or condition."

Tom's heart sank hearing that. Somewhere deep down, he had always hoped that a parent would appear before him, and rescue him from this dreary place. He refused to succumb to such weak thoughts, however, and coldly pushed them away whenever they reared their ugly heads, but nonetheless, learning that nothing could be learned of either of his parents stung.

"How comes he to have any name at all, then?" inquired Mrs. Mann tearfully, and Tom felt positively sick from having to witness her poor acting skills.

"The father named him," Mrs. Cole explained in a hushed voice, as if this was some delicious gossip. "Right before dropping dead, he did. Nasty gash to the back, you see."

"Oh how awful!" Mrs. Mann exclaimed excitedly, leaning forwards in her seat next to the fire.

"It was; such a shame for a man with such handsome features to pass; an' at the hands of a murderer at that."

Mrs. Mann gasped at that, and Tom felt himself pale at the unsettling news. "Murder? Why, I never – did they catch him – the officers, I mean."

"Still a mystery, the entire ordeal," claimed Mrs. Cole, downing the rest of her drink in a quick sweep. "Tom being now too old to remain here, the board have determined to have him back into the workhouse. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once."

Quick as a weasel, Tom slipped back to the hallway and up the staircase, hearing Mrs. Mann's cheerful "I'll fetch him directly," behind him as he went. Martha looked up at him with reproach as he barged into the nook, hurrying to sit down on his cot to wait for his summoning.

He had barely calmed his breath when his short and stocky matron bustled into the room and snatched a tight hold of his right arm, not saying a word as she dragged him back down the stairs and into the parlour. "Make a bow to nice Mrs. Cole, Tom," said Mrs. Mann after she had dropped his arm and pushed him gently into the room in front of her.

Tom made a bow and watched as the prim woman arose from her seat and reattached her dust grey hat on top of her thin black-haired head. "Will you go along with me, Tom?" she inquired in a majestic voice.

Looking up from his folded position, Tom saw Mrs. Mann, standing behind Mrs. Cole's chair, shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance, clearly threatening to give him a nice beating unless he acted saddened by leaving her tender care. It was with great triumph at finally holding something over her head that Tom firmly ignored her gestures and turned to Mrs. Cole with a grateful expression.

"I would go on with anybody with great readiness, ma'am," he said, blinking up at her with tearful eyes.

"Oh," said Mrs. Cole, casting a suspicious look over her shoulder at Mrs. Mann, who flushed bright purple in anger at his less than satisfactory reply. "Is that so? Very well then. Mrs. Mann, we shall take our leave."

At once, Mrs. Mann bustled forwards, engulfing him in a tight embrace, pinching him in the side at an odd angle, so that Mrs. Cole could impossibly see it. Ignoring the sharp pain, Tom opted for sending her a devilish grin once pulling away, which made her if possible even angrier, and even more intent on showing her good-will off to her guest. Pretending to weep, she hurried into the kitchen, babbling about her sweet little Tom needing something to munch on for the road, lest he should be too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With a generous slice of bread in his hand, and the little brown-cloth parish cap on his head, Tom was then led away by Mrs. Cole, not looking back once at the shabby little cottage where he had been brought up.

Mrs. Cole walked on with long strides, and Tom had to go to great lengths to keep up, quickly learning to keep his mouth shut since the prim lady only snapped at him whenever he inquired after the length of their travel or suchlike. It took them a great while, but at last, they arrived at a shabby old brick building; some great pipes sticking out at one side of it, with a steady stream of smoke billowing out of them.

He was led into the workhouse and through a great many cold and bleak corridors before arriving in a great whitewashed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face.

"Bow to the board," said Mrs. Cole. Blinking in confusion, seeing no board and wondering why he would be expected to bow to something like that, Tom opted for bowing to the table, which was the closest thing in resemblance to a board in the room.

"What's your name, boy?" said the gentleman in the high chair.

"Tom Riddle, sir," Tom answered in a quiet voice, feeling very out of place and uncomfortable with so many stares at him at once.

"You know you're an orphan, I suppose?" the gentleman continued in a stern voice.

"Yes, sir," Tom answered readily, not familiar with the word, although having heard it being used before, guessing that it had to be similar to his being a parish child.

"Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade," said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair. "So you'll begin to pick oakum tomorrow morning at six o'clock," added a surly gentleman in a white waistcoat, looking down at Tom as if he was the filthiest, most disgusting thing he had ever laid eyes on.

"Yes, sir," Tom answered and watched the surly man's face twist into a furious sneer.

"Don't you 'yes' the board, you disrespectful fool," he exclaimed, and the other gentlemen nodded vigorously in agreement.

"I'm sorry, sir," Tom said hurriedly, realising that 'the board' probably referred to the group of gentlemen and not a piece of wood, "I meant no disrespect, sir."

"I hope you say your prayers every night," said another gentleman in a gruff voice; "and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of you – like a good Christian."

"I do, sir, every night," Tom lied in a childish voice, carefully avoiding the word 'yes'.

After the interrogation, he was dismissed, and led into a large ward by Mrs. Cole, where twenty or thirty men of varying ages lay sleeping on rough, threadbare mattresses, some of them snoring so loudly it echoed against the cold brick walls.

Crawling into his own rough, hard bed, Tom did his best to shut out the noise and go to sleep, knowing that the next day would probably be even worse than he could imagine. He wasn't wrong.

At six o'clock sharp, he was rudely startled awake by a nasty clatter, and looking up from the privacy of his blanket, Tom saw a fat, mean-looking man with a pronounced undershot jaw, glaring out at the ward with a heavy stick in one hand and a large cowbell in the other. As he rattled it one more time, screeching for them to "get up, you lazy bastards!" the men around him scurried out of their beds and pulled on their thin, grey working clothes.

Tom hesitantly got out of his own bed, shivering as the bitter cold stole over his body, and slowly walked up to the sharp-jawed man, whose glare intensified the closer he got. "Excuse me, sir," Tom said in a quiet voice, trying to seem as pathetic as he could. "I was wondering –"

"Tom Riddle are ye, boy?" the man demanded short-temperedly, as if his being so was some great insult. Tom nodded uncertainly, and without another word, the man turned towards one of the closets to the right side of the door. Out of there, he pulled a shabby set of grey worker clothes that he roughly handed over, snapping for Tom to hurry and get dressed so that they could get a move on.

Trotting on in a neat line, the paupers and orphans were led into a large hall, with rows upon rows of wooden benches – making the room look akin to a church. The master situated himself on top of a podium at the front of the room, as all workers seated themselves on the benches, facing him. They sat in silence, waiting as more workers, from other wards, came in behind them and sat down as well.

Out of his coat pocket, the master pulled out a small pocket watch, and nodded to himself with a huff. "It's time!" he called out, nodding to his assistants, who started handing out heavy heaps of old rope to the workers, who instantly started to untwisting the fibres with stiff fingers. "Now set to it!" the master called out as they started working, taking another look at his watch before sitting down in his fairly comfortable-looking armchair and watching them with hawk-eyes for any sign of slacking.

Tom wasn't at all unused to labour, as he had often been subject to doing most hard work at the farm while Mrs. Mann poked about in the kitchen and Martha looked after the younger boys, but sitting in the same position for hours upon hours, mindlessly doing the same tedious work, did evil things to his mind. Six hours later, they still hadn't been fed, and he was right about ready to snap. Whenever he looked up at the master, or his assistants, he got a burning urge to tear, hurt, kill; make them all suffer for subjecting him to this slavery.

And then, they were fed. After standing in line for what seemed like hours, Tom was delivered a cup-sized plate with two spoonfuls of gruel, which he hurriedly gulped down at first opportunity. As the wicked paste burned the depth of his sunken tummy, he levelled a dark glare at the master, and swore to himself that one day he would return and smite down all who had ever made him unjustly suffer; starting with him.


End file.
